has_a_horn: (what | ...)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
The door to the book store creaks loudly as he pulls it open, and as his eyes adjust to the gloom inside he finds a vampire staring at him from behind the cluttered counter. The man squints at the new arrival briefly, before announcing that the shop is closed. Gabriel just smiles at him and walks towards the back of the shop. "Don't worry, I don't want any books. Just looking for Aziraphale." This news seems to appease the vampire, who waves him on and then lies his head on the counter top to sleep.

After a minute of trying to navigate around books, Gabriel simply wings himself to the doorway at the back of the shop. Aziraphale can probably tell that he's here by now, so there's really no reason to knock before he pushes the door open and walks in.

Only, when he walks in, Aziraphale doesn't even seem to be awake. He's lying on the couch with one leg propped up along the backrest and a book covering his face. The room doesn't seem much better- there are wine bottles and detritus everywhere in various states of disarray. Obviously he should have stopped by sooner. He'd come because he's been missing having someone around that he can communicate with telepathically, but it looks like Aziraphale could use his help instead.

He steps in quietly and reaches out to gently lift the book off of Aziraphale's face. That done without waking him, he folds the book and sets it aside.

"Aziraphale?" Nothing. He pokes him with a finger. "Hey, Captain Plaid, wake up."
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
It's been a long time. Right? Hasn't it? It's been a long time.

Passage of days is nothing to Aziraphale. He did without Crowley in a very real, very cosmic sense for a whole entire month, or was it two, he'll be buggered if he's going to be specific about these things - for that whole time, and he was, well, he was miserable, but he made it, right? Only because the Rift in all its bloody capitalized capitalization saw fit to reunite them, but details, details. Here's the point. The point is this. Aziraphale is drunk.

He's been drunk every day for several weeks now. He spends the bookshop's various erratic hours at the back, drinking, while Spike handles the absent business in his champion-like way. Every evening he sobers himself up, returns home to the room Crowley is no longer allowed to enter, and spends a wonderful bunch of hours with Melanie, having tea, cakes, and raw meat, reading books, letting her stroke his wings. That sort of thing. It's lovely and it exists in its own bubble, where no other thoughts are allowed to intrude.

This, though, the rest of it, is awful. He could spend more time with Melanie. It's not like his presence is required at the shop. But he goes there all the same. Sometimes to fawn over the modest collection he's acquired, mostly to wish Crowley would appear. Just slither in like he does. Hissing. Skulking. Lounging.

It's not that Aziraphale misses him, well no, all right, it's exactly that, it's that and a handful of change, he misses Crowley ridiculously, painfully, infuriatingly. What is he to do? Lucifer is still very much a Thing, as the kids are saying, and Aziraphale's not going home to Melanie with freeze burns on his face.

But Crowley is so very dear to him, a truth he evades as often and aggressively as possible, and yet, this itch is still there, this itch to do something impulsive and bloody stupid, something because something is, after weeks of nothing, better than another week of nothing.

This is how, somewhere in there, he winds up inside Crowley's flat with a half-emptied bottle of wine (his fifteenth) in his hand, fixing the demon with an abnormally pleasant smile and thrusting an index finger toward him in a specifically non-accusatory fashion.

"Oh, hullo!" he says as though he has absolutely no idea how he got here. "How's things?"
andhiswife: (profile - uncertain)
[personal profile] andhiswife
The practical, sensible part of her knows this might not be a good idea. It's too sudden, too quick, too much responsibility striking like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky. Greta's still raw and aching, the Witch's blunt exposition and the Balladeer's more gentle but no less horrible refrain replaying themselves in her mind with exhausting regularity. She shouldn't even be alive; what business does she have taking in a child? Especially one who, from the sounds of things, might as well have been raised by wolves?

Well. She doesn't have any business, full stop. That's rather been the problem, these past few days. Waiting to go home had been her chief occupation, and there's no point in that, anymore. If she doesn't find some way to fill the hours, all the loving support her friends can offer won't be enough to keep her from going mad. She needs to do something.

She can do this.

Her apartment was already neat as a pin, and it's been livened up with some art supplies and a few toys. It's not enough for the long term - the child will need far more if Greta's going to care for her indefinitely - but she thought it best not to jar the girl with an overwhelming display. Aziraphale only asked for help, after all; it would be rash of her to act as if it was a given that Lilly would be staying here forever. Maybe she'll only end up watching the child for a few days. Maybe Lilly won't even like it here.

Greta really hopes she does, though. Now that a potential purpose has been dangled in front of her nose, she can't help but grasp at it. And if she's a little too eager, well, that's better than the numbing fog she's been drifting through of late.

How refreshing, to want something she can actually have.

She looks around the apartment, as if to give the furniture an opportunity to object to the impending visitor. Then she picks up her phone and texts Aziraphale one last time.
has_a_horn: (pout | wtf)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
(slight sickness related grossness in the following)

He wakes up sore, and not in a fun way. He groans, and every muscle in his body protests as he swings his legs around the edge of the bed and sits up. What the hell is this? He stomach feels wrong and his head is pounding like he's got the worst hangover imaginable. Actually, worse than imaginable because when he attempts to heal himself, nothing happens.

There's something on his face- he lifts a hand and "Ughh-" that's definitely snot on his face. There is snot where it definitely should not be. At least when he goes to wipe it away, it disappears.

Whatever this is, he clearly needs help. A moment later, he arrives lying face down on Johnny's bed.

He groans. "Johnny, I've been cursed. Probly the rift. You need to-" He waves a hand vaguely then coughs, and for a moment he feels like he might just keep coughing forever, but it passes. "-call Aziraphale. He needs to come'n do something." He's ill. Surely this is what it feels like to be deathly ill, and if Aziraphale can't heal him, maybe he can reverse whatever curse the rift or whoever has put on him.

(He'll be with Johnny for a while, but later he'll be up at his place again, likely flopped in bed. Anyone is free to visit then)
driftseeker: (don't get lost)
[personal profile] driftseeker
Echoes of Raleigh, listen to me sing a horrifying chorus as her brother is ripped from the Conn-Pod, torn away with his life skewered on teeth larger than anything, his mind a shrieking turmoil of fear and agony and despair -

Mako wakes with a sharp intake of breath.

She doesn't have a brother.

She sits up in the bed in the apartment Gabe was kind enough to offer her, green like he said it would be to match the curtains framing the window, where the watery predawn light filters in to fall in puddled disarray over the rumpled sheets.

She braces hands to her temples.

She doesn't have a brother. She doesn't have a brother.

Mako jerks the covers back and pads to the kitchen, rattling around in a frantic attempt to fall into some morning routine. It is not until the loud groan of the coffeemaker pierces her ears that she realizes she does not start the morning with coffee. She starts with tea, Darjeeling black, and Raleigh would drum his fingers against the countertop impatiently, absently, as he waited for the grind of the beans to halt and the rhythmic drip of the machine to begin.

Coffeemaker abandoned, Mako flees into the outside world with its rush of cars and dizzying lights. She does not have much by the way of clothing, just essentials, simple and utilitarian.

She reads the name of the place at which she finds herself. Wilmot's.

She needs a drink.

No she doesn't. Raleigh needs one.

Mako has to sit down and order, and then she puts her head in her hands.
deadeyedchild: this is the best part (be silent)
[personal profile] deadeyedchild
[Immediately following this.]

Jay moves Tim's body to his bed. It's hard. He feels exhausted, like his body has been on ice the whole time he was 'dead', muscles needing to learn again how to work. Tim's heavy and Jay can't really lift him, can only sort of roll him awkwardly up onto the bed. It's absurd and undignified and he doesn't give a fuck.

In fact he feels incredibly numb. The initial shock and rage and sadness has fizzled down into nothing. He's running on autopilot, auxiliary power. He finds Tim's keys and takes the one for his apartment. He finds Tim's phone and calls in to his workplace. They actually remember him from that one time he called in for Tim before.

He tells them the truth this time: Tim is in a coma. He's being cared for at home.

They tell him they're going to have to let Tim go, but that, if things look up, he's welcome to re-apply. They seem like good people. Understanding enough.

Tim's phone ends up in his pocket. May as well.

He stands there staring at Tim for too long, until he realizes he feels like he's going to faint. He's hungry, thirsty, he feels sick. His body is both catching up to him and rejecting all of this. He doesn't want to leave Tim, not ever, but he has to. Just for a bit.

He stumbles out of the apartment, locks it behind him, sweaty and cold. He stares at his hands, which are visible and solid and pale and shuddering.

He staggers down a few flights and into the hallway, moving down it like he's in a trance, stopping finally outside Daine's door. He lifts a trembling hand and knocks.
i_jones: indiefairy @ LJ (guys there's all this pizza and turtles)
[personal profile] i_jones
Welcome, welcome. Not through that door. I mean, you can try it, but all doors lead to breakfast. Even that one underneath the console. You thought you were being clever. Maybe once you've behaved yourself and the TARDIS judges you to be worthy, you can explore a little more. For now, breakfast. For one night only, the TARDIS has become - or rather, has been inhabited by - King Ianto's Coffee Stop. Would you like to join the club? He has pamphlets. And buttons! But more importantly, he has breakfast. Lots of breakfast. The countertops of the cozy diner are lined with plates of breakfast foods galore - bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, cockles, laverbread... and okay, there are American staples too. There's your pancakes and your french toast and hash browns and cupcakes or whatever strange sweet things Americans eat for breakfast. Oh, and tea. Lots of tea. And if you ask very nicely, King Ianto himself might brew up some of his very own coffee. It's so good, it has a cult following.*

The walls are decorated with a strange collection of primarily alien souvenirs. There's one whole section of postcards from other planets and galaxies. GREETINGS FROM MARS! says one particularly upbeat postcard, featuring swathes of blue sand and a setting blue sun. Many others are unreadable. There are flags, leis of unfamiliar flora, letters of commendation (right next to WANTED signs), photographs both old and new of various people and various Doctors posing next to various monuments and landmarks, and strangely enough, what looks to be a stolen sign commemorating Ianto's death, from the management of Mermaid Quay. Have a look around! You never know what you might find. Probably none of it is dangerous. The food definitely isn't.

Oh and also the ceiling is space and outside the windows is space and spaaaaaace.**

*((Ianto has an undiscovered power: his coffee improves you. Your health, your powers (temporarily), your mood, whatever needs fixing. Please drink responsibly.))

**not actually space
bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
Aziraphale is up bright and early, in that he has been up for several days straight, finally having a bit more luck not getting trapped in the Rift's infernal dreamspace. Melanie is still asleep and he doesn't want to disturb her, so he miracles himself some tea silently and drinks it just as silently, mentally preparing himself for the task that awaits him. He promised to help Gabriel with this new child, and he will help. Melanie had seemed both excited and a little daunted by the prospect of having a real human child around, but he isn't terribly worried about how she'll get on. It's himself he isn't so sure about.

Well, nothing for it but to get on. He'd been directed to the apartment below Gabriel's - the evident home of his so-called "boytoy" - to retrieve the girl, so he focuses in on the place and the minds therein (odd little minds, both of them) and departs.

He arrives to find the young man sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee, smiling faintly at the little girl, who appears to be playing with a rabbit. Johnny startles slightly to see the new presence, looking vaguely annoyed. Perhaps he should have knocked.

"Sorry," he says. "Er, Johnny, right? I'm here for Lilly?" He looks at the little girl and offers an uncertain smile. "Hallo."

The childish crayon drawings that cover the wall have certainly not gone unnoticed. Such behavior will not be allowed at his house. That will have to be corrected.

"Nice to meet you," says Johnny in a tone that makes it very clear it isn't. What an unpleasant little man. When he addresses the girl, however, his tone becomes completely different: soft and gentle. Hrmph. Why isn't he good enough to keep the child around?

Perhaps because he allows her to draw on walls.

"Lilly," says Johnny. "This is the guy we told you about. He's gonna take you somewhere nice that you can stay, okay?" He glances up at Aziraphale. "Is there anything she can call you that isn't that many syllables?"

"There is not," says Aziraphale, mildly affronted at the suggestion.

Johnny stares coldly at him, then says pointedly to the girl, "This is Greg."

A very unpleasant little man.
fucking_ebay: (misc | pouring a drink)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's tempting -- maybe surprisingly tempting to anyone who doesn't know Peter as well as he knows himself -- to just burn it all and start over. A penthouse (not to mention an actual fucking return to the stage) should mean matching furniture and built-ins, shiny new fixtures, and all the details and decorations planned and picked down to the silk sheets and the display cases he's sure to start filling with spooky crap and detritus rare supernatural artifacts and top of the line weapons.

Unfortunately, his time in New York has made him unpleasantly practical. The rickety bed, the ratty couch, the TV Gabe brought him (alright, that's at least decent)...it will all have to do, at least to start with. He's not a headliner again yet, and he's starved himself enough months to finally start relearning how to live on a budget. That includes not taking the lazy way out and hiring movers to get his stuff from one place to another literally within a few blocks (he seriously considered it), so this morning he's boxing up the last of the odds and ends that make up his life and stinking up his old apartment with a celebratory cigar for good measure. At least there's not much -- it's a tiny apartment and he never had money, so the problem is going to be less one of bulk and more one of the penthouse probably looking fucking empty even once he's unpacked again.

Bee's due any minute, insistent as she is on helping despite it being unclear to Peter what she's getting out of it. That probably means the cigar is a bit ill-advised (he's fairly sure they're not allowed to smoke indoors at all), but he'd come across it while packing and it seemed stupid to put a lone cigar in one of the boxes. Anyway, it's not his apartment anymore, and not his problem.
postictal: (yeah charlie we can be sneaky)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: blood and bodily injury. This post is the aftermath of the events that occurred over yonder, which means Tim might need some help getting home.]

The lurching sensation of waking suffuses Tim’s body with a hollow ache, leaving him feeling roughly like he just went ten rounds with a cement truck.

While being dragged through the woods.

And on fire.

The rich smell of torn-up earth fills his nostrils with the first shaky indrawn breath, hands fisted into the grass. He’s face-down. God, but he’s face-down. Lying in the grass and the dirt with a pounding headache and a swelling soreness in his lungs, in his side.

Doesn’t take a goddamn genius.

His eyes slit open. There's a dull, scabbed red crusted over the ridges of his knuckles. Just beside him, a shallow mound of smooth white. He reaches carefully with one hand, fingertips running over the cool pale edge of the mask, that old familiarity. He doesn't need to see the empty eyes, the taunting curve of its motionless smile, to know what he's done.

With the bracing flex of fingers pushing against loose-packed dirt, Tim forces himself painfully upright and immediately sinks back to his knees, breathing out a low, agonized hiss. His fingers creep over the sharp stab of pain through his abdomen, and through the tear in his shirt he can see the red puckered skin of - Jesus, did someone stab him?

Yeah, so take the cement truck analogy and add to it, something like triple the magnitude, because that’s about what it feels like.

His legs shake beneath him when he half-crawls, half-drags himself to the nearest tree and plants one hand against it, sucking in deep, slow lungfuls of air between ragged coughs. He tries to swipe a hand through his hair to push it from his face, but his fingers tangle into the clinging mat of - oh, wonderful. Twigs and leaves in his hair. Blood in his hair. The dark stain stretching of his side is unmistakeable; peeling back the blood-dampened layers of clothing doesn't make the sight any easier to stomach. Something pitted in his chest jolts as he grimaces and quickly looks away, breathing heavy and fast through his nose.

Still, and he summons up his bitter sense of not-optimism, it could be worse. He could be waking up with a broken leg. He could be waking up miles out of the state. So, sure, he has no idea how he's getting home like this when he can barely even walk - at least when his leg was broken he could still drive, he still had a car, and it might have been painful as fuck but he'd managed it. Teeth gritted against the agony buried in every tiny movement, he fishes out the phone that is thank god still in his pocket, but the sheer number of text notifications plunges his flicker of relief into ice. Even panicked, Jay wouldn’t send him so many -

Oh.

Oh god damn it.

Fuming, Tim thrusts the phone into his pocket and hopes to god that he's not about to be sick.
wildmage_daine: (wolf alert or curious)
[personal profile] wildmage_daine
Daine leaves the remains of the base in crow shape, surrounded by other birds, buzzing with adrenaline and borrowed strength. She and her friends have destroyed all the records they could find, left the labs in ruins, smashed computers and other expensive-looking things to pieces. The only things left intact are the tunnels themselves, because she hadn't wanted to risk collapsing the ground up above, and the food. Both belong to the rats, now, and she wishes them joy of it.

She's not sorry. She's not sorry.

The dogs are a bright, familiar cluster in her mind's eye, and she wings her way towards them. That's where Peeta will be. He's not as far from the base itself as she'd like him to be, but it doesn't matter anymore. If any stragglers tried to take him, they'd have nowhere to go.

The cold, furious part of her thinks: if any stragglers tried to take him, I'd kill them.

But there's no one suspicious around when she finally spies him and the others. Maybe Peeta knows her crow shape well enough to recognize her among the other birds as she swoops towards them. Regardless, she doesn't stay crow for long: once she hits the ground, she lapses into wolf shape, the only one she can count on herself to hold for any length of time. Maybe it's too noticeable, but there are far more noticeable things happening back near Columbus Circle. She could just be an overlarge dog.

Daine moves toward him, her gait somewhere between a trot and a stagger, hackles raised in lingering anger, but tail wagging. He's alive, he's in one piece, and they're free.
erratic_hematic: (getting a bad idea)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike wakes up fairly early in the morning, and doesn't feel inclined to go back to sleep. It looks like it's going to be a warm day, so he forgoes his jacket when he leaves to wander through the park for a little while before making his way to the bookshop.

He hears the little mews before he sees them. On a park bench, a woman is sitting with a cardboard box. As he walks up, the man she'd been talking to lifts a black and white kitten out of the box, thanks her, and wanders off. He grins, excited at the prospect of eating something decent for once. The only kitten left in the box is all black. Short haired. A perfect snack. Spike hasn't forgotten his search for a better blood supply. And, while kittens aren't exactly the best option out there (pet shops would definitely get suspicious after a while), live stock is definitely something to try.

He takes the little black cat with him to work, plops it down on the counter, and goes about his day. Aziraphale probably wouldn't like him eating it here, but it'll be a nice little meal when he gets back home.
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
Protecting the city from the rifties -- and the rifties from the city -- is a full time job. That's never been more true than it is today, when there are metaphorical (and sometimes physical) fires to put out all over Manhattan. It's been a rough time at ROMAC in general; most of the organization's people are unfamiliar with the specifics of the recent animal attack, but even those who don't know that a number of prisoners guests of ROMAC have gone missing in the last few days (or that the computer system is still compromised) know that something has thrown the organization into disarray.

Unfortunately for ROMAC and fortunately for certain other people, ROMAC's resources are spread thin by whatever's put the Rift in a tizzy. As large as the organization is, though, there's surely nothing to worry about from the handful of malcontents at large in the city.

Surely.


[OOC: And here's the thread for taking down ROMAC! There will be a couple of player characters on ROMAC's side (check to see whether their threads are open to all before tagging in, as they may have limited availability due to prior plans), and anyone in need of 'enemies' to tag against can request an NPC from the mods. Have at!]
bluesuit_handy: (.misc | sneaky)
[personal profile] bluesuit_handy
This is probably not a bad thing he's doing, Andrew rationalizes. Yes, they twisted his arm a bit with all that stuff about having put together the pieces and worked out that he'd let the Rebels register him. No, he's not impressed by ROMAC's line about 'only' wanting him to prove his loyalty by putting his connections in the other organization to use. He's hardly fit to be up and about yet, let alone tottering out into the world in search of missing persons, so at the very least they're being terribly negligent about their choice of field agents.

Still, the missing person in question is a missing child, and he'd hardly be doing any harm just by checking it out, would he? The name had rung a bell, but it took him a while to remember just where he'd heard about a Melanie formerly of ROMAC...and just where he could expect to find her now. If he trusted ROMAC to be telling him the full story he could simply tell them what Daniel had told him in a dream, but he doesn't and so he didn't. He knows she was taken away from ROMAC under mysterious circumstances and he knows that she was under quarantine before that (it's not entirely clear whether he's meant to believe that was for her benefit of that of others), but he doesn't know why and he's well aware that he doesn't know how she feels about all this. His assignment is to simply find where she's being 'held' and report back, but he's rather more inclined to have a chat with her and/or this Aziraphale person and then either bring her back himself or cover his tracks and do a song and dance to convince ROMAC he gave it the old college try.

It's not so very difficult to locate the relevant apartment within the building, though each person he has to ask about it is a person too many. Luckily he hasn't run into anyone who knows him well enough to make anything of his sudden reappearance around Rebel-Land, but all the same he doesn't care to linger longer than he has to. He spares a quick glance up and down the hallway, then knocks briskly on the door, bracing himself to shoulder his way in should the door actually be opened.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
[Aziraphale, Book!Melanie, and Poetry!Spike are gonna be hanging out in his bookshop all day, so feel free to pop by! Melanie can see and hear you, and will communicate with you if you look at her pages. Spike is only able to speak in verse. And if you touch Aziraphale, you will be turned into a book. The choice is yours.]

Aziraphale sets Melanie down gingerly on the front counter, keeping her close. He looks around nervously. He can't touch anything. Can't have tea, can't have any of Sunshine's wonderful baked goods, can't read books. He's going to have to just stand here stoic and keep watch over his book girl.

He picks her up again and holds her around. "Here we are," he says, feeling rather foolish. Spike is due in at any moment, he hopes the vampire doesn't walk in now, as he's showing a book the bookstore. That would look very silly. He sets her back down and opens her up to a blank page. "I'll make sure no one tries to buy you. I'm very good at that. Don't worry."

This is going to be a long day.


[Reply to the post to interact with Aziraphale and/or Melanie, and to Spike's top level to interact with Spike. Time is complicated but it's gonna be okay we'll get through this.]
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
 photo beauty and the beast stained glass rose-NZWR_sm_zpsadnbeqxz.png


The twenty-seventh of August dawns bright and clear, but when your characters wake up, they will immediately notice something wrong. They've woken up the wrong size, or species, or age. Or perhaps everything seems normal until they take a bite of their apple-flavored toaster strudel, or attempt to speak, or wander into the woods, or bump into that old crone in the subway and fail to adequately apologize. However it happens, there's no getting around it: your characters are cursed, like an unfortunate out of a fairy tale.

On the bright side, many curses can be broken. Unfortunately, none of them come with user manuals, so how they might be broken isn't clear. Perhaps true love's kiss will do it, or a heroically sacrificial act, or some serious reflection followed by revelatory insight into your own soul. Or, y'know, whatever. But it's far more likely that your character will just be stuck with whatever it is until sunset, when any and all remaining curses will be broken.

[OOC: Feel free to use this post for initial reactions to whatever curse your character has found themselves suffering. Any additional posts for more specified shenanigans can go up under the 'events: curses' tag. Sunset is a little after 7:30 PM. Backdating and backtagging are the best and you should do both of those things if necessary.]
erratic_hematic: (sad sitting)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
[tw for gross blood and also death and maybe corpse things and being buried alive. fun all around.]

Spike stops going to work the Monday after he and Sunshine break up. Sunshine won't want to see him, it would hurt to see her, and every single moment his body makes feels like too much effort anyway. It would be too much to go down there just to feel more pain. The best he can do is go to the fridge and dole himself out a half-congealed serving of inferior blood before stumbling back to bed or the couch. He doesn't bother microwaving it anymore, just lets it sit out until it's melted enough to drink. Each disgusting serving hardly makes a dent in his steadily deteriorating health. He feels himself improve for shorter and shorter amounts of time each time until the blood seems to stop working entirely.

On the sixteenth, he wakes up with a start and pulls in a gasping breath. He'd stopped breathing. Breathing isn't strictly necessary for his survival, but it's part of what makes him feel alive.

He doesn't feel alive on the morning of the sixteenth. He feels like a corpse. He lies there, just forcing air back though his lungs and reassuring himself that this isn't over yet. He can breath if he thinks about it. If he makes the effort.

He needs to get up. Even if the blood is worthless, he needs to try to get to it. It's all he's got.

When he flexes his hand, his fingers resist the motion like rigor is setting in, so he pulls his fingers in until they form a tight fist, then releases it. He repeats the motion with his other hand, runs through the motions one more time, then drags his legs around to the side of the bed. He feels so cold. He can't remember ever feeling this cold. As his vision slips in and out of focus, he imagines a coffin collapsing around him and his mouth filling with cold, dark earth. He's dying here. Can I die like this, he wonders, or will it be worse than that?

He has to get up.

Every joint in his body protests when Spike stands and stumbles forward. He collides with the door frame and grips onto it until he's sure he can stay upright. He's so so very tired. His eyes slip closed and he sags against the door frame, his shoulder the only thing propping him up. When his eyes flutter open again, it takes him a moment to reorient himself. He can see where he needs to go, but it feels almost impossible now.

He pushes himself as hard as he can from the door frame, but he gets thrown off balance and falls to his knees. The action is jarring, and enough to make him lose consciousness for a full minute. When he comes back to, he pushes an arm under himself only to realize that he's not strong enough now to stand again. He wants Sunshine, or Aziraphale, or anyone that could pick him up right now, but there's no way anyone is coming. He doesn't matter enough to be missed.

He crawls the rest of the way to the kitchen area. When carpeting meets linoleum, he lets his body sag back down to the floor and drops his cheek down onto the smooth surface. This is pretty far. He made it. He'll just rest a while and then make it to the fridge.

Five minutes later, he stops breathing. He doesn't start again.
bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
"You did WHAT?!"

Oh dear. He did not mean to snap. He shuts his eyes and draws a breath for patience.

When he'd asked Melanie if she'd had a nice time in last night's dream he had been making conversation - it was a lovely dream, surely nothing bad had happened, but in fact exactly that had happened. She met Rashad, AND Illyria. And she invited Illyria over.

"I'm sorry," he says in a clipped tone, "it's all right, I'm not angry, I'm just - I'm concerned, is what I am. Illyria is very dangerous. I do not want her knowing about you. And it seems like every time I encounter her she wants to do battle."

Oh lord. Is he going to have ward her out now? She won't like that. He saw how she tried to break through the barrier around the island, which is far more powerful than anything he could create. He sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands.
bibliophale: (excuse you | no)
[personal profile] bibliophale
Aziraphale arrives at his shop on the morning of the 4th, only some hours after meeting Crowley in the park, after meeting Gabriel at the diner, after his difficult discussion with Melanie, after that dream, and finds Illyria sitting in the back just as he'd left her. All that had gone on and she'd just been here, contemplating space. Right. His mind's been made up. It was a trying night for many, many reasons, but he's refreshed now, and he's ready to finally face this unfaced problem.

"It's time for you to move out," he tells her sternly. "Come on now. We're getting you a proper place to stay. Can't have you in here all the time. Up you get."

He will suffer no further God-Kings. He'll put her somewhere close by, where he can keep an eye out - he's still concerned about Winifred Burkle showing up again, for instance - but his shop will go back to being his, thanks very much.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
He's sunk very low, he thinks, since he came here. He hasn't really given himself time to think about it properly, keeping himself busy, pretending everything is fine as he has always done, but tonight, inebriation has brought an unusual clarity. His conversation with Gabriel helped but did not heal. He has to tell Crowley what's happened.

He feels truly destitute for the first time since that awful month before the Rift took him, when he was alone, no idea where Crowley had gone. He's standing in the park in the small hours of the morning, hidden in one of the many dark spots of the Ramble, fussing angrily with his phone. Bloody thing. He has half a mind to throw it into the woods. When he's finally made it clear to Crowley where he is, or clear enough anyway, he pockets it and stands staring into the dark.

Crowley will likely scold him for making him come out here over something so inconsequential - it is inconsequential, he tells himself - but he doesn't care. He doesn't sober himself up, either. It will make this easier, if not more pleasant. It feels like he's about to deal drugs. Or something else, equally clandestine - isn't that what this area used to be for? He can't help but chuckle a little at that. Imagine them, meeting in the park like this, like-

Well. Like they used to do. More or less.

He sighs, takes his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose, and then looks up, replacing them, when he feels Crowley appear nearby.

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